


Bright Blessed Days, Dark Sacred Nights

by Carrieosity



Series: Tumblr Bunnies and Ficlets - Supernatural [16]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Awkward Conversations, First Meetings, Grief/Mourning, Humor, Librarian Dean Winchester, Libraries, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Single Parent Castiel (Supernatural), Widower Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-05 20:13:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19047568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carrieosity/pseuds/Carrieosity
Summary: A notebook left behind in the children’s department of Dean’s library turns out to be someone’s private journal. He knows he really shouldn’t read it. Of course, he’s going to.And then he’ll have to deal with what he’s just read.





	Bright Blessed Days, Dark Sacred Nights

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by [sternchencas](%E2%80%9Csternchencas.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D): “How about this. Destiel: I found a journal in a library and opened it to find out who it belongs to. I didn’t find a name anywhere in it, but it seems the owner has a crush on someone who sounds a lot like me.”
> 
> I have no idea why my brain wanted to take this cute little idea and turn it into something weightier, but I decided not to fight it.

_ Part of me is convinced I’m being terribly selfish somehow. I know, I can just picture you rolling your eyes at me right now, telling me how ridiculous I’m being, but I can’t help it. This was supposed to be for J., something that Good Dads do, and I was going to sit in the back, surrounded by soccer moms and retired grandparents and feel righteous and miserable. Righteously miserable? And when that wound up being the furthest thing from the truth, I wound up feeling this gut-churning blend of shame and need, all at once. _

_ J. was in heaven, naturally. He wants to come back again next week. I told him of course, and it felt right to do that. He needs the social involvement, so much more than I’ve been able to give him. I just wish it could be as simple as that, that I wasn’t positive that those green eyes and that whiskey-rough voice weren’t going to be haunting me in the meantime… _

Dean blinked down at the notebook in his hands. He’d found the thing wedged between the cushions of one of the easy chairs that lined the wall of the storytime room, and it had fallen open to a random page in the middle when he’d freed it. The paper was covered in words penned in a script that looked almost old-fashioned in its stylized neatness. Along the sides of the pages, Dean saw tiny doodled sketches—a child’s chubby hand, a cat curled into a tight ball, a fat bumblebee on a bloom.

The top of the facing page had a date on it, one from mid-January. This was unquestionably someone’s private journal, and Dean had absolutely no business reading another word. 

Besides, there were plenty of other people with green eyes working at the library. Anyway, just because he’d found it  _ in  _ the library, there was no proof that this particular passage had been written  _ about _ the library. 

* * *

“Why do you want me to look?” Jo said, shaking her head in puzzlement when Dean handed her the notebook. Her blond ponytail flipped over her shoulder when she abruptly cocked her chin and narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Is this some kind of prank? Are spiders going to jump out of the book when I open it? Did your brother put you up to this? Because if he did, I swear, I’m going to remake our bed with clown sheets—”

“No, I promise!” Dean cut in, holding up his hands with palms outward. “No prank involved, I promise. Though, uh, if you did want to do the clown thing, I’ll keep my mouth shut so long as you make sure to get video of his reaction.” Honestly, Jo was the best thing that had ever happened to Sam, and Dean couldn’t have chosen a better sister-in-law, but she was rather frighteningly committed to the prank war that the brothers had been waging between themselves for most of their lives.

Jo snorted. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, using her free hand to help brace herself as she hopped up to perch on the edge of the circulation counter. “So I ask again. Why can’t you just look yourself, if you think there might be a name in it? If you found it in Youth Services, you probably know the person who left it, and you can just call them, or give it to them when they come in next.” 

“Yeah, that’s sort of the problem,” Dean said with a sigh. “It’s a journal, and…well, people don’t like to think that their personal thoughts have been read by some person they barely know but still have to see on a regular basis.” It wasn’t the truth, or not the whole truth, but it was close enough that he thought it made a convincing argument.

“What, and it’ll be better if it’s me who gets to feel awkward around them? Ugh, Dean.” Jo frowned at him, tapping the journal against her thigh. “I already get the weirdos asking if they can ‘check me out, too’ when I’m checking out their materials. I’m trying  _ not _ to get any more personal with most of the people who come in here. And anyway, you can just tell them a shelver found it and got the name before turning it in. Or ask Becky. She’d be thrilled to take a peek.”

“Ask Becky what?” The perky clerk in question, as though summoned, stuck her head through the doorway of the workroom. She had an eager look in her eyes, and Dean suppressed a shudder at having her involved at all.

“Just wondered, uh, if you could maybe drop by the gymnastics center this weekend and see if they have any coupons for us to hand out as prizes for Summer Reading,” he improvised, apologizing to Max, the owner, in his mind. Dean had meant to make that call himself, since Becky had been nursing an annoying crush on the man for ages, ever since Sam had gotten married and removed himself as the primary target of her attentions.

As expected, Becky squealed happily as she agreed, and Jo gave him a dirty look before tossing the notebook directly at his face.

* * *

The first thing Dean discovered, resigned to the need to investigate on his own, was that there was no easily accessible name written in the front of the journal. Neither was there a phone number, email address, or any other identifying information that would make his task simple.

“I should just drop it in the lost and found box,” he muttered, leaning back in his desk chair and running a hand through his hair. “If they want it, they’ll come looking.” Except that he knew for a fact that some of the teenage workers and volunteers had been known to raid the box for themselves when they thought the stuff had been sitting there long enough. From what little Dean had read before quickly closing the cover, this felt too personal to risk like that. 

Of course, the writer had used initials instead of names in the little Dean had seen, which made things tricky. Maybe if he just looked a little more, skimming for names only, he could find a clue? Biting his lip and trying to squint out of the corner of one eye, Dean cautiously cracked the book open to another section.  _ A little further on, this time, _ he thought, hoping more recently written entries could provide better context.

_ Got J. a haircut this afternoon. You’d hardly recognize him these days, I think. He’s so changed from the round little ball that you knew. Today, when the barber finished snipping his little bangs and he wrinkled his nose and pursed his lips to try to blow the tiny tickly hairs off his face, I caught a glimpse of the young man he’ll be in far too little time for my tastes. I have no clue how I’m supposed to parent a “big kid.” I never thought I’d have to do it alone, certainly.  _

_ The therapist says I’m angry about that. I asked him who I’m supposedly angry with, and he just shrugged. God? Myself? You? That would be unfair, but nothing about this is fair. You’re the one who got the raw end of the deal, anyway. I’m just the husband who had to bury half of his heart in the ground and walk away. _

Dean quickly closed the notebook again, chest tight. God, this was  _ such _ a bad idea. But he hadn’t been wrong; the journal was an incredibly personal thing, and he needed to get it back into rightful hands as soon as possible. If he’d lost something like this himself, he knew he’d be losing his mind over it.

“Kid’s name starts with J,” he said to himself. Well, that wasn’t helpful. Even just considering the kids in the library that he knew personally, he could think of a dozen boys with J-names: three Josiahs, a couple of Joeys, a handful of Jacobs and Jacksons, a Jude, some Jeffreys with a variety of spellings…

He took a deep breath and tried again. And again. And again. Time slipped by without Dean’s awareness, and without meaning to be, he was drawn into the mysterious life of a complete stranger, as surely as he’d ever been pulled into any published story. 

_ Do you remember what you told me not long before we were married, when I said I couldn’t imagine a life without you? You got all serious and told me I’d better find a way to imagine it, since barring some sort of tragic accident, or an alien invasion, or the end of the world itself, one of us was going to have to manage on our own. I called you cynical, but you were right. And I think you’d be proud, even if it took me too long to get here.  _

_ Today, when I was watching D., I couldn’t stop smiling, and even when J. glanced back at me and I saw you in his face, all I could feel was gratitude. I’m grateful for what we had, even if all I have left are memories. Well, memories and our boy. I’m better for having had you in my life. _

_ Is it creepy to say that I wish you could be here beside me, just so I could hear your opinion of D.? So I could ask you whether you think I should do anything about these feelings that have definitely moved into crush territory? It’s been so long since I’ve been with another man, I wonder whether I’d even still remember the mechanics of it…  _

When he finally emerged from his office, it was with bewilderment that he realized that he was the only one left in the library. Dean felt slightly disgruntled at being forgotten, but it was probably a blessing; he wasn’t sure if he’d ever manage to stop blushing.

* * *

 

Over the next few days, Dean found himself in the highly unusual position of being frustrated over the popularity of his storytime programs. He knew as well as anyone else that they were a major draw for the department; when the library director had learned that Dean played guitar, and quite well, as a hobby, she’d been insistent that he should try adding a little music to the programs, and it had been more successful than either of them could imagine. Dean would be lying if he said he wasn’t flattered by the attention he got from kids and parents alike, but now he almost wished for a bit less notoriety.

On any given week, Dean led three different storytimes for preschoolers, one shorter one for lap babies, and a special music-only program in which the kids were encouraged to get up and dance and sing along with him. With anywhere from a dozen to over thirty kids per group (okay, he could probably count the babies out, based on context clues from the journal), that made for a hell of a lot of possible candidates for the mystery writer.

He framed out in his mind what he thought he could safely assume:

  1. The writer was male, probably in his thirties but definitely no younger than his mid-twenties ( _“My high school reunion is next month, though I probably won’t go…”_ ) and not much past forty ( _“Mom keeps trying to set me up with her younger coworkers, as uncomfortable as that would be…”_ ).
  2. The writer had one child, name beginning with J, who was old enough to be verbal and who was either way too smart for his own good or else had completely fooled his dad into thinking he was.
  3. The writer was quiet, kept to himself most of the time, wouldn’t be one of those parents who was chatting easily with the other moms and dads in the back of the room, and definitely hadn’t engaged Dean in conversation before.
  4. The writer was devastatingly handsome.



“Oh, come on, Dean. You can’t know that,” Sam had said when he’d caught Dean lost in his thoughts one too many times and had somehow managed to coax the story out of him.

“I dunno,” Dean had said, shrugging helplessly. “Something about him just makes me think it. Maybe it’s the handwriting. Anyone who writes like that…”

Sam had pinched his lips together and rolled his eyes, so Dean had given up trying to explain. 

And so here he was, trying to divide his attention between the rapt audience of three-year-olds and their milling caregivers, all the while attempting to present a smooth and professional program.  _ God, this is impossible, _ he thought, scanning the group of kids and trying to pick out all the Js. “Hey, Justin, why don’t you come up here and hold Mr. Frog for me?” he asked, watching carefully to see if any of the men in the room would give themselves away as the kid’s parent. (No luck; apparently, little Justin was here under the supervision of an elderly Asian nanny.)

Thankfully, Dean was comfortable enough with the music that he could strum and sing his way through “What a Wonderful World” mostly on autopilot. This was his last story program of the week, so either the guy was one of the men here today, or else he hadn’t shown up this week, since nobody had looked likely in the earlier programs. Was it possible that the man was so embarrassed at the thought that somebody here might have found and read his journal that he was just going to stop coming completely? Dean felt a pang in his heart at the idea.

“You’re getting obsessed with a complete stranger,” Sam had insisted. “Bad enough that you invaded his privacy like that, but you can’t think that you actually know that guy, just from that one glance into his thoughts.” Even if Sam was right, though, Dean couldn’t stop wondering. He couldn’t help himself; he wanted to give the man a massive, comforting hug, and he wanted to tell him how hilarious and magical his little drawings were, and he wanted to take him out for drinks and listen to him talk about all sorts of things, to hear that contemplative writer’s voice given actual sound and weight. Yeah, perhaps Sam was right about him becoming obsessed.

“Yeah, I think to myself…what a wonderful world,” Dean sang, letting the final phrase of the song trail away and the last chord resonate beneath his fingertips. The kids, who had been wriggly but quiet, started clamoring for the next story; the parents murmured to each other with the desperate camaraderie of those who spend most of their daily hours with tiny tyrants. Some of them were checking their phones. One man was…fiddling with the cushion behind him.

Searching in the cracks? Looking for a lost notebook?

Dean recognized he dark-haired man, but only in passing. He wasn’t even sure which of the children belonged to him, or if it was a boy or girl or whole brood. Glancing at the guy’s visible hand, he saw no wedding ring, but that didn’t necessarily mean much. Dean frowned, wishing the dude would just look up so he could get a good look at his face, just for a moment…

“Mister Dean, read Froggy now,” a small voice demanded. Dean blinked, realizing he’d been staring in silence while the kids watched and waited. The girl who had spoken up was pointing to the book waiting behind him on the table.

“Okay, okay,” he said, reaching back for it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the guy twist the other direction on the sofa, and for a brief moment, Dean caught a glimpse of a shadowed jawline and a profile sharp enough to cut glass, with eyes that looked too old for the man’s relative youth.  

* * *

 

Castiel knew he was irritating the people around him, but there was no help for it. He’d spent the week alternating between wanting to hide in bed and trying to retrace every step he’d taken since the last time he knew he’d had his journal in hand. By now, he was convinced that someone must have found the book, and his only prayer was that they’d simply tossed it into the garbage. Better that than to think they’d read it for their own voyeuristic entertainment.

_ Damn Dr. Myers, _ he thought for the thousandth time. If his therapist hadn’t been so firm on having him write his feelings, none of this would be happening. Oh, Castiel had written; he’d written everything. And now he felt naked in front of the world, not knowing who might have been allowed into his secrets.

Jack had tried to help, once Castiel had explained that he was upset because he’d lost something important to him, but after the twentieth book the boy had presented to him, asking, “Is this the one you lost?” Castiel had given him a hug and told him not to worry about it. Not that he’d been all that convincing, but at least now Jack was only offering up his favorite toys and snacks in his attempts to cheer Daddy.

_ Maybe it slid all the way through the cushions and down to the floor under the sofa? _ It was a long shot, but there was no way to check until storytime was over and people were leaving. Thankfully, “Mister Dean” was already instructing the children to “reach for the ceiling,” which heralded the end of the program, save for the much coveted hand-stamping.

As soon as the other parents started standing and making their way toward their kids, Castiel was on his knees, peering under the sofa into the dark. He wriggled his hand into the narrow space, feeling for anything he couldn’t see, and he was so caught up in trying to stretch his fingers further that he didn’t even notice the approaching footsteps before there was someone kneeling next to him. “Hey, uh, sir? Mister…”

“Dad!” Jack squealed. “That’s my dad. Hey, Dad!”

Mortified, Castiel turned his head and found himself face-to-face with the gorgeous children’s librarian he’d been fantasizing about for weeks. “Hello,” he said weakly.

For some reason, Dean’s cheeks flushed crimson at the greeting, and he swallowed before replying. “Hi,” he said. “I get the feeling you’ve got a name besides ‘Dad,’ right?”

Castiel huffed a laugh as he extricated his hand from under the sofa. “It’s Castiel,” he said. “I’m Jack’s father, obviously.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Dean said. He was smiling, but for some reason, he seemed uncertain. “Jack’s a great kid. You guys have been coming a while, but I haven’t really met you before, have I?”

“No, that’s true.” Castiel’s mouth was dry, and he felt wildly out of his depth. Had it really only been five years since the last time he tried to interact with an attractive stranger? Admittedly, Kelly’s calming self-assurance had been a mitigating factor in that particular introduction, but even discounting his marriage, Castiel couldn’t recall that any of his other experiences had felt quite so…electric.

“Well, that’s a shame,” Dean said, looking down and biting at his lip. Castiel found his eyes drawn to the movement, powerless to resist. “Actually, if you’re not busy, would you want to get a cup of coffee? I mean, only if you want.”

“Yes,” Castiel blurted, forgetting completely his anxiety of only minutes prior. “Yes, I’d like that very much.”

Dean smiled again, but there was still uncertainty behind those green eyes. Castiel didn’t know why, but he chalked it up to nervousness.     

* * *

 

Dean was going to puke. He was one hundred percent sure of it. On the positive side, he was going to be able to laugh in Sam’s face over his brother’s doubt about the mystery writer’s attractiveness, because  _ goddamn. _

But sexiness was irrelevant in the face of imminent vomit. Also irrelevant in the face of getting  _ punched _ in the face, which was what was going to happen when Castiel finally stopped blinking in shock. How in the  _ hell _ had he thought this was a good idea?

The coffee shop near the library had a patio and a small swingset. Jack—whom Dean had known, of freaking course, because the kid had introduced himself to almost everyone on the library staff on his first visit—was happily digging in the sand underneath, blissfully unaware of the trainwreck happening a few yards away. Thankfully, there were no other witnesses around, so Castiel would be able to black Dean’s eye in privacy. Much better than the alternative.

Castiel was still blinking. The only sound he’d made was a sort of raspy squeak Dean couldn’t begin to interpret.

“I swear, I was just looking for a name and number, so I could get it back to you,” Dean said, when he couldn’t stand the silence anymore. “I didn’t…I mean, I wasn’t trying to be nosy or anything.” When there was still no response forthcoming, he nudged the journal closer to Castiel’s untouched coffee. “And, uh,” he added with a wince, “my boss would probably be happier if you, um…not the face?”

Finally, the stunned expression on the other man’s face broke, shifting into something closer to bewilderment. “Not the face—what? I don’t…” Realization seemed to strike then, and his brows lowered in consternation. “I’m not going to  _ hit _ you, for God’s sake. I’m just…” Castiel heaved a deep sigh, lifting a hand and resting it on the worn cover of the journal. “I’m just wishing I could go back in time and decide not to pick up a pen and start this. If I hadn’t, I might still be able to show my face in the library. I’m more mortified than angry.”

“Hey, you can still come to the library! I’m the only one who read it, after all.” From the look Castiel gave him, that reassurance was less effective than it might have been. Dean grimaced. “Okay, look. I’m the one who should be feeling humiliated here, not you. I’m the one who read something that was clearly not meant for me to see. You were just writing, doing what you needed to do so you could get yourself on track and feel better. Did it help?”

Castiel shrugged, then nodded. “It did.”

“See? There you go. And I’m not gonna judge that, especially since it’d make me a hypocrite. I kept a journal myself for a long time, back when my dad passed.”

Snorting and rolling his eyes, Castiel said, “Fair, but I doubt yours contained sexually explicit thoughts about another person, which then accidentally wound up in the hands of that very person.”

“Well, no, but you gotta admit, that’s sort of a specific scenario,” Dean attempted to joke. “And anyway, you never called me out by name. Up until just now, you totally had plausible deniability.”

“Oh, did I?” Castiel said dryly, cocking an eyebrow. “Because there are so very many men at Pontiac Public with green eyes, the initial ‘D,’ deep voices, and a way of making my son laugh that brings sunshine to my day?”

Dean hummed thoughtfully. “I dunno. I’ve never thought to look at Garth’s eye color. Maintenance guys are a barrel of laughs, you know.” Castiel, caught off guard, was startled into a real chuckle, and relief swept through Dean at the sound.

“Okay,” Castiel said when he stopped laughing. “So I showed my cards too early, I suppose. I’m still embarrassed. None of what was in here—“ he tapped the journal “—were things I’d have brought up immediately upon meeting someone. Hell,  _ before  _ meeting them. The ideas you must have developed about me…”

Dean shifted in his seat, feeling a bit awkward. “I get that, man. You want to show your best side when you meet someone new, hide as many warts as you can. But Cas? I wouldn’t call anything I saw in there a ‘wart.’ And I hope you know that any time you want to talk about how much you miss Jack’s mom, or anything else on your heart…I’m a pretty good listener. That is, if you want to accept my apologies for snooping and maybe give me another chance at this, I mean.”

“I think…I would like that,” Castiel said. His hand opened and closed hesitantly, and then he slid it across the table and wrapped it around Dean’s own. His fingers were warm and strong, sending delicious tingles of anticipation through Dean’s nerves.

“Good,” he said. “Me, too.” They smiled at each other for a moment, breaking the eye contact only when Castiel reached for his coffee to take a drink. “Also, I’m very interested in what you wrote back on March 16th, about what you wanted to do to me if you got the chance.”

It was a good thing the notebook had a rugged cover; only the edges of the pages suffered lasting damage from the spilled coffee.

 

**Author's Note:**

> It’s a real picture book, and I recommend it.


End file.
